


Grime Down The Drain

by gala_apples



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, M/M, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There Clint was, laid in the bath, arching up towards Phil, presenting a wet, pale chest to him as he pleasured himself. After a long day of no radio contact, they both deserved that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grime Down The Drain

Phil had gone through a lot of agents during his time at SHIELD. One thing they all had in common, male and female alike, was their disinterest in reporting directly to medical. But it was rare for an agent to show up in his office. Of course it was Barton. Clint's face was covered in soot. One long shirt sleeve was charred, and Phil made a mental note to give Agent Fenway shit on his report. Cli-Agent Barton had explained that he did his best work unencumbered by loose clothing, yet Fenway had insisted that a leather tanktop wouldn’t go unnoticed in the rich neighbourhood they were infiltrating. For all that he was right -the reason Phil’d had to enforce dress clothing- it obviously gotten in the way.

He felt his cheek twitched slightly as he frowned at Barton and then the dirty footprints across the office grey carpet. He almost, for a moment, allowed himself to forget his concern and rage when he caught sight of bright pink skin, evidence of a first degree burn. He drew himself back to the present sharply. 

"Barton," he said curtly. "What a pleasant surprise to see you in my office at such a time. Do you want to make some far-fetched, blundering excuses before you remove your filthy boots from what was once a nice carpet?"

There it was. If Clint wished to unofficially debrief Phil he had now been invited to. And Phil would not have to use any words like _worried_ or _could have been killed_ or, worst of all, _missed you_. Not that he would have used them, of course, because he definitely had not missed the mess and the noise and that terrible cologne the idiot insisted upon pouring everywhere.

“Far-fetched? I was in San Diego at an outdoor country concert. Some jerk was too happy with his lighter, and all the banners lit up. Barely got out without roasting. Blundering? I, er, um, I, well it's to say that, um, made a mistake? Truth? It was definitely another one of Dent's hiding places. Someone must have tipped him off, the entire thing was ablaze.” Ignoring his still tightly tied on boots, Clint crossed the room and took Phil by the chin, forcing him to look at him. “The entire area was bugged. If I couldn't even talk to Fenway to warn him of the falling timbers, how was I supposed to call you?”

Phil couldn’t expect Clint to say sorry, because that's the way it was. They were government agents and the world was a cutthroat place full of people trying to win by hurting others. Phil had known that a long time, and no amount of apologising on Clint's account would change it. He fought for something to say. Something witty and nonchalant and scathing, proper for a boss. Something about one of the stupid, untrue excuses that Clint had long given up leaving on his mission statements, once he realised Phil or Fury would only make him write another. Something about- something about something which didn't make his head hurt to think about. Instead, Phil stared into blue eyes for a moment before pulling his jaw from the man's grip. 

“Come home with me.”

The drive to Phil’s apartment was chatty, but it didn’t take a genius to see that Clint was still revved from the mission. He turned the air conditioning to full blast, even though that made the entire car smell like the Ed Hardy air freshener dangling over it. Given that his nose was probably full of smoke, Phil could understand it.

“Get in the bath,” he muttered. “Filthy minx.”

The mood didn't lighten as he expected. Instead he found his eyes drawn back of the sooty face, the tight line of the Clint's lips, the empty look in his eyes. Phil gave him a harsh shove towards the bathroom. Attempting to balance professionalism and off time romance was the way Phil tried to deal with things, and he failed more often than he succeeded. Certainly it was never the way Clint wanted him to act. As always, it came down to whose will was strongest. After a moment Clint moved into the bathroom. Phil stayed in the hallway but he could tell by the shriek of the pipes that Clint turned the hot tap on the bathtub full tilt. 

Once his suit was hung in the front closet -the only closet in the apartment- shoes lined up neatly beside the other pairs, jacket on its padded hanger, tie draped over the lowest third of the hanger Phil gave thought to what he should do next. It wasn’t a long self conversation. It was pretty obvious he should have followed Clint into the bathroom. 

Phil crossed the hall and slipped through the partially opened door. He looked down at Clint, now slowly climbing into the tub, and nodded once. Phil had his own post-mission baths. They were always recuperative. He could always feel the grime simply lifting off him. It was like he had two layers of skin, his flesh, and a layer composed entirely of the world's dirt. What everybody wanted, what demands were made. When he sat in a tub after a rough mission the day's demands just floated off and went down the drain. He wasn’t sure Clint got that. He rather suspected that Clint just thought Phil thought he was gross, and he needed to scrub off. Phil ignored the suspicious glint in the Clint's eyes until they closed, the archer fully submerging himself in the water.

Clint reached to the side of the tub. The ledge was full of both full bars and slivers of soap, remnants of Phil buying something delicious smelling at each Lush or Body Shop or craft fair he passed while travelling for work. It was too much effort to scratch off the caked on splinters so Phil tended to leave them. If nothing else they were spots of colour against white porcelain, white tile and beige towels. The decently sized bar Clint grabbed was dark red. Phil was pretty sure it was Godmother. A good fit for him.

Clint didn’t put the bar straight to skin. Instead he put it between his hands and quickly rubbed back and forth. His palms were nearly white with lather when he stopped. Clint smeared his bubbly hands against the opposite arms, stopping at the elbows and used what was left on his chest before he needed more lather. Phil wished he’d take the time to enjoy it. Raise the bar to his nose and inhale deeply where the scent was most concentrated. Really feel the texture of the bubbles. It wasn’t until he had all of the soap slicked on then off again that Clint relaxed.

“Better.” It didn’t come out quite as the question Phil meant it to be.

Clint didn't bother to respond. The man only sighed, floating lazily in the bath, eyes closed and lips parted slightly. Phil waited for the inevitable chatter to start. If there was one thing colleagues of Agent Barton knew, it was that he had something to say in every situation. Except now, apparently. For a moment Phil thought he might have fallen asleep. Trust Clint Barton to fall asleep in the bath. And if he drowned, well, it would have to be Phil’s fault.  
He reached out, not caring that his sleeve instantly sucked up water, and shook Clint's thigh slightly. The man jerked. Well, he wasn't asleep, that much was certain. But Phil was now soaked, spluttering as water ran down his nose. and had his hand trapped between Clint's thighs.

The movement turned from hypervigilant to erotic almost immediately. One thing that had to be said for Clint, he wasn’t afraid of his own desires. Clint bucked his hips several times, the movement affording him the slightest press of hand to genitals. Phil didn’t have much wiggle room between Clint’s clamped legs, but he had enough to cup him. Clint bucked his hips once more and made that noise, the one that always went straight to Phil’s cock. It had to be mostly a show, he wasn’t even fully erect yet, but Phil loved hearing it nonetheless.

Clint groaned again and his legs fell open so he could wrap his hand around his cock. His burned pink arm was a sharp relief against his pale stomach. Phil was left with suddenly free hands that wanted to touch every inch of Clint. He settled for curling them round the white porcelain edge of the tub, not sure Clint wanted him in the way. What they had was tentative, so hard to read, unlike every other situation Phil had ever been in. His concern was proven wrong as Clint’s left hand scrambled out and squeezed on contact.Phil stared down at where the man's hand had grasped onto his fingers and wanted to smile.  
Then Clint gave another loud groan, his hips jerking upwards chasing his hand. The rapid crash back to the bottom of the tub soaked Phil’s shirt. Not that Phil paid much attention, for in that moment he reached forward with his other hand, mingling his fingers with Clint’s around Clint’s cock.

He would wonder later how exactly he had managed to get into the bath. Comfortable for one person, it was shallow and thin for two. That would be later, though, when he was wringing the water out of his dress slacks and watching Barton smirk like a middle aged brat. Now, though, Phil was content to crush himself against Clint, stifling any more preposterously arousing sounds he might want to make. The water was hot as it splashed against Phil’s legs and the body pressed against his just as warm. Phil slipped his hand from between their two bodies, rocking his hips so their cocks rubbed together to replace the loss. 

Phil moved until he could grab Clint by the hair roughly to pull their faces closer together. Clint moaned against Phil’s teeth, bucking his hips so roughly Phil almost, almost, fell. His head left Phil’s hold, hitting the back of the bath with a painful sounding thunk. Clint ignored it, his free hand reaching around to grab Phil’s hips. He held him close, tight enough to bruise as they both thrust together.

Quite a bit of their relationship was based on things they'd never say. Profession didn’t allow for some, personality for others. But the one thing Phil was sure of as he came into his underwear, Clint spilling onto himself, Phil, and into the water, was that this was good for the both of them. Not just better than the alternative of being alone, but genuinely good for them.

They lay there for a moment in the bath, silent and sated. Then Clint shifted and looked up, eyes inches from Phil’s. He could sense Clint’s smirk, though seeing it would only come with pulling away or crossing his eyes. “You're squashing me.”

Phil tried his best to climb out of the tub gracefully. He doubted it worked. Regardless of how much he was the master of his own body, his wet clothes still flapped uselessly where they didn’t cling.

“Stay there a minute.”

Phil left the bathroom, closing the door halfway behind him. He took the opportunity to dump his wet clothes in the hamper, pausing for a moment at his underwear before he decided to keep them on. If he stripped down completely, still half hard from the frottage, Clint would feel obligated to return the favour. That wasn’t what he wanted this to be about. Beside the hamper was a chest of towels. He had half a dozen facecloths, ranging from nearly sandpaper for scrubbing off dead skin to soft enough for an infant. He chose one then reentered the bathroom.

Along with more bars than he could count, Phil also had a collection of liquid soap. The one he plucked before he got on his knees was called Very Berry. It was a cliche of a soap name, but the actual mix -black currant, pomegranate and cranberry- was unique enough to deserve its purchase. He dipped his cloth in the bathwater, noting it was getting cool, which prompted him to turn the hot water tap on a trickle before he squirted some Very Berry on the edge of his cloth. Phil folded the cloth so the gloopy end was against the wet but clean middle of the cloth, and rubbed them together vigorously. After the second swipe the purple soap was beginning to turn white. After a few more there was a swath of white from the center across the left side of the cloth.

“What are you doing?”

Phil would have thought it would be obvious, considering Clint was in the bathtub and Phil was leaning over it, cloth in hand. “Washing you.”

“I did that part already, or did you miss it?”

Phil ignored Clint, as one often had to. The liquid soap foamed up much better than bar soap, almost like a pile of whipped cream. Slowly, slowly, Phil stroked it over Clint’s ribcage. Clint shivered at the delicate touch. Phil smiled to himself. He knew from experience how soft the foamed soap was, especially paired with the threadbare cloth he had picked. It was only fair, Phil thought. At work he had to give him danger, and pain, and extremes of temperature and height and sound. But here... Here Clint could have soft and slippery and safe. It was only fair.


End file.
